Nymphadora Tonks jolted awake, her breath catching, heart hammering in her chest like it was trying to escape. Light sliced through the curtains in sharp, merciless lines, landing across the sheets like bars. Morning. Already.
She squeezed her eyes shut, desperate to clutch at the last threads of her dream before they slipped away completely. It was already fading—his voice, his touch—but the warmth lingered faintly, like the echo of something kind. Gentle fingers had brushed the hair from her face; soft lips had pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"Sweet dreams," he'd said, voice like silk and dusk.
For a second, she'd believed it. Believed that someone might actually care. That maybe she mattered to someone. But she knew better now. He wasn't real. Just another lie her mind had conjured up to soften the edges. Another ghost in the ever-growing collection.
She stared up at the ceiling, eyes dry but aching. The dream had felt safer than waking life ever did. Like something she'd once had but lost—if she'd ever had it at all.
Her body stayed still, curled in the last warmth her bed could offer. She didn't want to move. Didn't want to feel the cold beyond the blankets. Because once she moved, the thoughts would come. They always did. Already, they were creeping in around the edges.
What the hell are you doing?
Is this who you are now?
Are you proud of this mess?
She turned her head, as if looking away might quiet the noise. It never did. Her throat tightened as the air thickened with all the things she didn't want to think about. Didn't want to remember.
Eventually, she sat up with a groan, sheets falling away to reveal skin that felt alien. Like it didn't belong to her anymore. Like it had been borrowed, used, and returned. She didn't feel human—just a body walking through motions. Her own shell.
Coins glinted on the bedside table, catching the sunlight. Sharp. Cold. Accusing. She gathered a few, the metal biting into her fingers, and dropped them into her bag. The clink of galleons echoed in the silence, far too loud. Each one a reminder. A price. A piece of herself exchanged for… what, exactly? Survival?
She stepped back, and more coins slipped to the floor. She didn't bother to pick them up. Let them scatter. Let them rot.
In the bathroom, she didn't look in the mirror right away. She already knew what was waiting there. Someone else. Not her.
When she finally lifted her gaze, the reflection met her like a stranger. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Sun-kissed skin. A pretty lie. Not a trace of the girl who once laughed so easily. It was just camouflage now. Disguise. Armour.
She was sixteen. Just a kid, wasn't she? But her body didn't feel sixteen anymore. Not after thirteen. Not after the surgery. Not after the silence that followed—heavy, suffocating, endless. She remembered the sterile smell of the clinic. The way the air refused to move. How her mother's face never once changed.
Her hand drifted to her belly. Flat now. Always would be. Her mother had made sure of that.
"It's better this way," Andromeda had said.
But Tonks didn't believe her. Not then. Not now. The ache never left. And neither did the guilt.
She never got to say goodbye.
The waiting room at St. Mungo's buzzed faintly with conversation, rustling robes, and the occasional cough. It smelt of antiseptic and old parchment. Tonks sat in the corner, knees drawn together, hands clutched tightly in her lap. Cold sweat clung to her palms. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears, drowning out the world.
"Is there a Nymphadora Tonks here?"
The healer's voice sliced through the hum like a spell. Tonks flinched. The name was a slap in itself—sharp and humiliating. No one called her that. No one but—
"Yes!" her mother barked, already on her feet. Quick. Commanding. Andromeda's eyes scanned the room, then landed on her daughter. "Come on, Nymphadora. It's time."
Tonks didn't move. Her muscles had locked, like something inside her refused to cooperate. She stared at her hands—pale, shaking, useless. Her vision blurred as silent tears slipped down her cheeks. She didn't even bother to wipe them away.
The shame was unbearable. It throbbed in her chest like a second heartbeat. You let this happen. You agreed. You gave up.
Andromeda stepped closer, her tone clipped and impatient. "What's wrong now?"
Tonks tried to speak. Her lips moved before her voice did, and when it finally came, it was barely more than a whisper. "I… I changed my mind."
Her mother's hand seized her wrist—tight and cold. "Nymphadora, we've discussed this."
Her name again. It cut worse than any wand.
"I can't," Tonks breathed. "I don't care what it takes. I'm keeping the baby."
It came out broken, like glass underfoot. But there was steel underneath the tears.
Andromeda's face hardened. "Don't be ridiculous."
"This isn't your life," Tonks snapped, her voice rising, raw and cracking. "You don't get to decide. You don't get to erase her."
"Stop it!" Andromeda snapped, her voice sharp enough to turn heads. Then softer, crueller: "That man ran the moment he found out. You want to ruin your future over that?"
Tonks reeled, as if struck. The words hit bone. He ran. He really did.
She'd known that already. But hearing it out loud made it real. Solid. Shame curled tighter inside her like a noose.
Her mother reached for her wand.
And Tonks… didn't fight. Not really. The defiance flickered and died in her chest, starved of oxygen. All her resolve crumbled beneath the weight of fear, grief, and exhaustion. She let herself be led, legs numb, steps automatic.
The hallway stretched ahead like a tunnel, swallowing her whole.
Inside, a voice whispered: I'm sorry.
But no one was listening.
Tonks stared into the mirror, her fingers clutching the edge of the sink until her knuckles turned white. The flickering bulb above cast harsh shadows across her face, deepening the lines beneath her eyes, hollowing her cheeks. She looked half-alive—like a ghost caught between this world and the next.
And maybe that's exactly what she was.
Her chest hurt. Not from magic, not from anything physical. It was the kind of ache that had no shape, no source she could point to—just a constant, dull throb in the centre of her being. The kind that settled in and made itself at home.
She tried to breathe, slow and steady, but the memory flooded in anyway—his voice, distant and cool, like a door closing for good.
"It's just… too much, Tonks. I can't… I'm sorry."
Just like that. Like she was something to walk away from. Something to regret.
And then came the room—the sterile white of it, the way it smelt of antiseptic and finality. No warmth. No ceremony. Just silence. Just loss.
It slammed into her all over again, knocking the air from her lungs.
Her hands trembled, and for a moment she gritted her teeth against the tide rising inside her. Then, with a spark of something—grief, defiance, rage, maybe all of it—she dropped the glamour. Let it all fall away.
Magic stirred around her, curling in smoky tendrils, and her true self emerged. Limp brown hair clung to her neck and cheeks, sweat-slicked and lifeless. Her face, stripped bare of illusion, was young but worn. Her eyes—dark and dull—held no sparkle, only a stubborn glint of something that refused to die. A flicker of resistance. She looked… ordinary. Invisible. But not to herself. Not anymore.
This is me, she thought. This is what's left.
No one really knew what she looked like now. Not really. Not even she did, most days. She'd buried her face under so many others—sleek blondes, fiery redheads, curves and coy smiles, eyes that promised something she never gave. All masks. All armour. Every change was a spell against loneliness. A way to feel wanted. A lie to pretend she was in control.
But lately… it wasn't working. The disguises didn't thrill her anymore. They didn't comfort. They just reminded her how far she'd fallen. How hungry she'd become. And for what?
She didn't even know what it was she needed. Love? Forgiveness? A second chance? Maybe just someone to say her name like it meant something.
She touched the glass with her fingertips, as though reaching for the girl behind it. Someone she used to be. Someone braver. Kinder. Whole.
"You're lost, love," she whispered, the words catching in her throat.
That voice in her head—it was louder these days. Not cruel exactly, just tired. Honest in the worst ways. It told her she wasn't healing; she was hiding. That hotel rooms and half-smiles weren't freedom; they were just new prisons with silk sheets and no bars.
Still, today was different. Or it had to be.
She straightened. Not much, but enough. Today, she wouldn't fall apart. Not again. Today she would decide who she was. Just for a few hours. Just long enough to feel something.
She slipped into the black dress like she was sliding into character. It clung to her like it remembered her better days. She painted her lips with a crimson shade—bold, unapologetic. A warpaint of sorts.
Her reflection grinned back, fierce and reckless. A woman who looked like she knew what she wanted, even if she didn't. It was all pretend, but sometimes pretending was enough to get by.
"Let's get this over with," she muttered, forcing steel into her voice.
Outside, the Muggle street buzzed with the noise of life—cars, laughter, music. Tonks stepped into it like stepping onto a stage. She flicked her wand, and her hair shimmered into golden waves, long and dazzling under the sun. She looked radiant. Untouchable.
People noticed. Heads turned.
She felt it—the attention, the pull of eyes following her. And she fed on it. Just a little. Enough to feel solid for a moment. Enough to believe she was still here.
Her heels tapped against the pavement in time with the city's heartbeat. She walked like she had somewhere to be. Like she meant to be seen.
But inside, she was still trembling. Her bravado was a thin veil stretched over nerves and scars. Still, she carried on. Because stopping meant thinking. And thinking meant remembering.
What's left under all this? She wondered.
Under the magic, the makeup, the little lies?
Maybe nothing. Maybe just a tired girl in a bathroom mirror, whispering truths to herself. Maybe something broken, soft, and still waiting.
A voice called from somewhere beside her. "Hey, gorgeous!"
She turned with a smile. Not real, not warm—just polished. Practised. Worn smooth from use.
"You're stunning," the man said.
"Thanks," she replied, silky and smooth. "You're not so bad yourself."
He laughed. She laughed too, because it was expected. Because that was the dance.
She slipped back into the role like it was a second skin. Flirty, charming, unreachable. Just another stranger. Just another day.
But something inside her winced. Just a flicker. Shame, maybe. Or sadness.
Is this all it'll ever be?
She didn't know. Couldn't let herself answer. Not tonight.
Still, as she walked beside him, her steps felt heavier than usual. The laughter didn't quite reach her eyes. But she kept moving. She held tight to that one quiet flicker—the tiniest hope that maybe, someday, she wouldn't need a costume to be loved.
The night stretched ahead. She was young still—bruised, cracked, but upright.
Still here.
And that had to count for something.
Remus Lupin sat rigidly at a polished table on the edge of a pristine outdoor café nestled between glass shopfronts and high-end boutiques in one of London's wealthiest districts. The cobblestones beneath his feet looked scrubbed clean enough to eat from, the kind of artificial shine that made everything feel staged. Even the air tasted expensive.
He wore his best charcoal suit. Its creases crisp, but it felt like a costume. Too formal. Too sharp. The collar scratched against his neck; the jacket pinched at his shoulders. It didn't sit right on him—just like the chair, just like the table, just like the place. This world was glossy and curated, and he didn't belong in it.
Not really.
He glanced around, watching the people drift past with the careless confidence of those who'd never had to flinch at the full moon. Muggles in fine coats, arms linked, voices bubbling with laughter. They looked so easy in themselves. Clean, comfortable. Whole.
He shifted in his seat, rubbing his palms against his knees under the table. The scent of roasted garlic and butter wafted from the kitchen behind him—something rich and slow-cooked—but it only twisted his stomach tighter. He couldn't imagine eating. Not when every part of him was pulled taut with anxiety.
Then she appeared—Lily Potter.
Her hair was the first thing he saw, that unmistakable flame-red catching the midday sun, loose curls bouncing around her shoulders. She walked towards him like she always did—brisk but warm, somehow managing to fill the space with colour.
"Remus," she said, grinning, eyes dancing with mischief. "You look like a man waiting for a Ministry summons, not lunch with your mate."
He managed a smile, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Well, you know me. Always been a bit of a flair-for-the-dramatic type."
That was a lie. Remus had never been dramatic. He was the one who stood in the background, quiet and measured, always calculating what was safest to say and what could go unsaid. But today—today, even breathing felt risky.
Lily sat down opposite him, her presence like a blanket over cold skin. She had a way of softening the sharp edges around him, always had. But even she couldn't dull the pounding behind his eyes.
He tried to focus, to be present. She was saying something about Harry's flying lessons, but his mind wandered.
A flicker of movement inside the café caught his eye.
A woman—tall, elegant, unmistakable—sat alone at a corner table by the window. Blonde hair, a sleek black dress that clung to her like a second skin, one leg crossed neatly over the other. She wasn't eating. Just watching.
Her eyes were fixed on him.
Remus looked away at once, heart skipping. There was nothing suggestive in her stare—no flirtation, no warmth. It was cool, clinical. Dissecting. He felt seen in the wrong way, like a specimen under glass. The menu in his hands suddenly felt like a shield.
He blinked hard, trying to shake the sudden chill crawling up his spine. He didn't know her. At least… he didn't think so. But something about her gaze made his skin crawl. Not fear—something older. Regret, perhaps. Or longing.
Or maybe just the ugly recognition of what he could never have.
She looked like she belonged in places like this—graceful, composed, untouched by the kinds of burdens he carried. Her kind didn't lie awake dreading full moons. Her kind didn't have to explain to lovers why they kept their distance. Her kind didn't walk through life constantly apologising just for existing.
Remus swallowed hard.
He was twenty-nine. Too young to feel this old. He'd spent half his life learning how to survive—with lycanthropy, with loss. But this… this was different. This was a fight he didn't know how to win.
He remembered the office at St. Mungo's. How bright the lights had been. Too bright. The healer had spoken clearly, carefully, like someone trained to deliver bad news in digestible pieces.
"It's a brain tumour."
That's what he'd said. Just like that. Like it was an inconvenient scheduling issue, not a death sentence.
Remus hadn't responded at first. Couldn't. His ears had buzzed, his hands gone clammy. He'd gripped the arms of the chair like he might fall through the floor. He remembered nodding, even though nothing had registered.
The healer had continued.
"This type can become malignant. It can affect memory, decision-making, and speech. Survival is… typically two years. We'll need to operate."
Will surgery cure it? He'd asked, desperate for a foothold.
The answer had come after only a moment's pause.
"No. We can reduce it. But we can't guarantee it won't return."
That had been the blow that truly landed. Not the word tumour, not the numbers. But can't guarantee it. That was the curse all over again. No certainty. No relief. Just endurance. Another endless, weary fight.
He'd left in a fog. Walked out of the ward into the waiting area, sat down heavily on a plastic chair that dug into his back. He remembered staring at the floor, trying to anchor himself to something real. Something solid. But nothing was.
And then—crying.
A teenage girl, maybe thirteen or fourteen. Her sobs were small but sharp, breaking through the muffled noise of the hospital like glass splintering underfoot. Her mother was beside her, crouched low, whispering something he couldn't hear. Her voice was steady, but there was a strain in it. Fear.
The girl looked up, and their eyes met—just for a moment.
She didn't speak. She didn't need to. Her tear-streaked face said it all.
She was scared. She didn't understand what was happening. She only knew that something was wrong and that no one could fix it.
In that single look, Remus saw himself. Small and frightened. Alone in a world that wouldn't explain itself.
That was the moment it sank in—not just the illness. But the truth.
He wasn't afraid of dying. Not really.
He was afraid of being forgotten. Of vanishing quietly, as if he'd never mattered.
He was afraid no one would be there when the time came. That he'd become a name on a record and nothing more.
The world outside the café moved on—people laughing, phones ringing, cups clinking. But Remus sat very still, hands in his lap, staring past the menu, past the streets, past Lily's concerned eyes.
Somewhere out there, someone was watching him. Someone whose pain echoed his own.
And somehow, that was both terrifying… and strangely comforting.
Everyone suffers, he thought. Some wear it like armour—visible, heavy. Others tuck it behind polite smiles and practiced ease. But no one escapes it entirely.
He stirred his drink without drinking, watching the tea darken around the spoon. Across the glass, the blonde woman was laughing now, her head tipped slightly toward an older man with silver hair and sharp eyes. She smiled like it cost her nothing. Like it had always come easy.
That flicker came again—something sharp and old, uncoiling in his chest. Not desire. Not quite dread either.
Recognition?
No. It couldn't be. His mind had played those tricks before, especially lately. Familiar faces where there were none. Ghosts where there should've been strangers. He blinked and looked away. The light shifted. Her face blurred just enough to break the illusion.
It wasn't her.
It wasn't the girl.
He pushed the thought down, like everything else he didn't want to carry. Like the ache in his spine, the constant fog behind his eyes, and the diagnosis that still didn't feel like it belonged to him.
Lily was speaking again, her voice low and even. But the words smudged at the edges, slipping past him like water through fingers. He tried to focus. Tried to ground himself in the now. The café. The clink of spoons. Her voice, steady but fraying. He clung to it, barely.
And then, quietly, he handed her the envelope.
It was just parchment. Ink and bureaucracy. But in his hands, it felt like a weapon. Something final.
He'd filled it out himself—methodical, detached. Signed every line like it belonged to someone else. They'd talked through it before, he and Lily, late into one of those nights where neither of them wanted to say what they were really afraid of.
But now, in the light of day, it felt different.
Real.
Final.
Lily opened it with careful hands, like it might burn her. Her eyes scanned the page. Then they froze.
DEATH REGISTRATION: REMUS JOHN LUPIN.
For a second, she didn't breathe.
The colour drained from her face, and he saw the exact moment her composure cracked. Just a tremor at first. A twitch in her fingers. A stutter in her breath.
Then the grief hit.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just there—raw and unmovable. The kind of grief that settled in the chest like a second heartbeat.
She held the paper as if it might change if she stared long enough. As if she could rewrite it through sheer will. But the words didn't move.
And neither did he.
Guilt settled on his shoulders like a second coat. He hadn't meant to hurt her. That was never the point. But he needed someone to see it. To witness it. And there was no one else he trusted with this part of him—the frightened part. The human part.
Lily always understood. She always had.
The world came back in a rush—the scrape of cutlery, the hum of traffic, a sudden burst of laughter from a nearby table. All of it crashing back into focus, like sound breaking through glass.
Lily slipped the paper back into the envelope, sealing it with quiet hands. Then she looked at him.
No words. Just eyes.
All of it was there—confusion, sorrow, a flicker of helpless rage—but underneath it all: love. That stubborn, steady kind that had survived every storm.
"Remus," she said, soft as snowfall.
It nearly undid him.
She wanted to say more—he felt it rising in her like a tide—but what words were left? What could she offer that he hadn't already mourned?
Still, the bond between them held. Something unspoken. Something unbreakable.
He wished—just for a moment—that he could stop time. Stay here. Sit with Lily in this quiet corner of a too-loud world, where nothing else intruded. Where he could forget the tumour. The curse. The constant ticking of the clock.
But the truth always returns.
She stood slowly, every movement deliberate. Her hand found his forearm—just a brush, but it grounded him. He felt it all through his chest: the goodbye, the promise, the ache.
Then she turned and walked away.
He watched her go until the crowd swallowed her, his heart filled with too many things to name.
Love. Loss. And something in between.
And still—he remained.